The Silver Falcon (6 page)

The workshop seemed stuffier than usual as William caught shallow breaths through his mouth. His nose was now completely blocked, and his head ached terribly. After only a few blows with the hammer, his strength failed him. His neck, the small of his back, his legs, and his arms—everything hurt. Although he was standing some distance away from the fire, it felt like he was standing in the center of the flames. Suddenly, the room began to spin, and then everything went black.

“William!” Someone was slapping his cheek roughly. “Wake up, lad,” Isaac said anxiously.

William tried to get up, but he was too weak to stand.

“I’ll carry him,” said Jean, Rose’s husband, picking him up off the ground.

“I’m sure he’s been at that running nonsense again. I don’t understand what purpose it’s supposed to serve.”

She cares about me, thought William, amazed. A tiny smile flickered on his pale lips. “It’s all right, Mother. I’ll be better soon,” he whispered.

When they entered the house, Rose hurried over, leaving the dough she had been kneading untended.

“Has he hurt himself?” Although Rose was used to problems with the smiths, since it was always she who came when they needed help, she sounded worried. William knew she loved him as she loved her own children. She meant almost as much to him, too, as his mother did.

“Fainted,” Jean explained, without wasting words.

“For heaven’s sake.” Rose laid her hand against William’s overheated forehead. “He needs to go to bed and get some rest. The poor boy has a fever. I’ll make him an infusion and cool some bedclothes. That’s bound to help.” She turned to reassure Ellenweore. “Don’t worry yourself—I’ll look after him. He’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

“This running is going to be the death of him!” muttered Ellenweore grimly.

Once in bed, William sank into a deep sleep. Sweating and groaning, he dreamed of marsh monsters trying to devour him and of a dragon pursuing him with its fiery breath.

When he woke up, Rose was sitting by the bed, cooling his forehead. William felt something wet on his calves. Rose had wrapped damp cloths around them. Although they absorbed the heat of his burning body, they did not reduce the fever. He felt weak, and he looked at Rose dully. Even his eyes hurt.

“Have a drink,” she ordered him, holding a cup to his lips. She lifted his head slightly and supported it.

“Thanks,” William whispered feebly. He soon slipped back into a feverish sleep.

When he awoke again, it was already dark. William listened. His stepsisters, Agnes and Marie, who were also his cousins, were lying not far away. They slept together in a shared bed. One of them made a tiny sound like the squeaking of a mouse. That was Marie. William was glad not to be alone. He licked his dry, chapped lips with a trembling tongue. Surely Rose must have left the cup with the herbal infusion near his bed. He felt for it laboriously and finally found it. He drank greedily and put the cup back down. The effect lasted until he fell asleep again; he began to feel so cold that his teeth chattered. Even the touch of his blanket hurt his skin.

When he woke up the following morning, he was sweating so profusely that his body was as wet as a rain shower. This time, his mother was kneeling beside the bed and cooling his forehead.

“I know you run because you want to keep up with the hunt assistants. But you’re going to be a smith, not a falconer. When will you grasp that?”

To William, her voice sounded almost pleading. Just for a brief moment, he opened his eyes to look at her; then he turned away and closed them again.

He heard a heavy tread and knew Isaac had entered the room.

“When he’s better, I’ll send him to Arthur at Orford,” she said. “He knows William will take over the smithy one day. I’m sure he hopes the boy will take one of his daughters off his hands when that day comes, so I’m certain he’ll give him the attention he needs. At Arthur’s he’ll learn how to forge good tools. In a year or two we can look at it again.” His mother seemed to have made her decision. “It’s better for him.”

She wanted to send him away. William could not take it in. He tried to open his eyes in disbelief, but he couldn’t. His eyelids were too heavy. Or perhaps he was only dreaming?

“I’m glad you’re better again.” Rose beamed at William when he stood up for the first time two days later. He was still weak, of course, but soon he would be able to go back to work.

“Was it just a dream, or does she really want to send me away?” he asked dully, warming his clammy fingers on the cup of hot milk that Rose had put down in front of him.

“Arthur’s a nice fellow. I’m sure you’ll get on well with each other. It’s for the best.” Rose tried to convince him.

William looked at her, dismayed. He had hoped she would tell him it all had been a feverish dream; instead she had confirmed his fears. Worried, he blew away the rising steam and took a cautious
sip of the milk. “You’ve sweetened it with honey,” he remarked quietly. He liked sweet milk above all things, but right then he could not take pleasure in it. He felt nothing but sadness.

“For strength, so that you can be up and about again soon.” Rose stroked his hand affectionately.

“‘And be sent away,’ you should say, too,” William said, bitterly disappointed. He ate his porridge in silence, then went back to bed. Evidently everyone in the house was conspiring against him. William started sweating again and felt dreadful. Wounded to the core, he turned his face to the wall and pulled the blanket up around his ears.

Almost five months had passed since the king’s visit. The sun’s rays were gaining strength, and the air was no longer as bitingly cold as it had been in February. William had recovered some time ago, and he was working in the smithy as before. He tried hard, but it did not help. His mother was ill-tempered, probably because the king had still not ordered a sword from her. Yet she did not so much as mention Orford again, so William at last put her words behind him and began to run again. He got up from his bed even earlier than before. He took care not to encounter anyone and tried not to attract attention when he returned from his circuits. One day, though, his mother caught him, stepping out in front of him as if molded from the earth itself.

“You’ve been running, even though I forbade it,” she stated tonelessly.

Her anger stood like a wall between them. Though he did not really feel he had done anything wrong, William looked down.

“Tomorrow morning we leave for Orford,” said Ellenweore coldly.

William looked up sharply. “No, Mother, not that.”

But she had already turned away and was on her way back to the workshop.

William ran after her. “I have to be here when the king’s messenger comes.”

Ellenweore stopped, turned around, and looked at him almost pityingly. The anger had left her face. “No one’s coming—don’t you see that? Get that idea out of your head, once and for all.”

“I know he’ll send someone.”

“You’re to be a smith, and that’s all there is to it. I’m sure Arthur will be happy to take you on if I hand over a share of the tenancy. He’ll be a good master.”

“But—”

“There’s no point arguing about it any longer. My decision is made. You have only yourself to blame: you were warned.”

William’s shoulders slumped, and he followed her silently into the workshop. He knew her decision was irrevocable. Perhaps it really would be better if he left this place.

Over the evening meal, Ellenweore told the others about their departure, which she had already arranged for the next day.

Rose tried to make it easier for William with a smile and some encouraging words, while Jean gave him a few well-intentioned pieces of advice about the journey and how to behave with his new master.

But William only half listened and said nothing. Confused thoughts whirled about in his head. Was it disappointment, hope, or fear that was making his heart race?

Rose gave them some provisions, a loaf of bread and some cheese, all tied up in a piece of cloth. Then she added two water skins.

The previous evening, Jean had found William’s favorite hammer. “If you must go in for smithing…” he whispered in his ear as he gave it to him.

William was touched by the gesture.

“Come and see us at Christmas, and show us what progress you’ve made,” Jean continued with exaggerated heartiness, clapping William on the shoulder kindly. “She won’t be on your back all the time, and you’ll learn a lot of new things.”

Rose took William in her arms, sighing, and pressed him to her breast like a young child, which made him blush. “Make sure you don’t catch a chill again when you go running,” she whispered in his ear. Then she pinched his chin and looked serious. “We’re really going to miss you.”

William looked down through tear-filled eyes. “
She
won’t miss me.” He glanced angrily toward where his mother was standing.

Ellenweore seemed not to have heard him. Gesticulating excitedly, she was talking to Isaac and checking the saddles on the two horses that Peter, the longest-serving and most faithful of her apprentices, had prepared for the journey.

“Nonsense, my lamb. It’s hard for her, but she thinks sending you to Orford is the right thing to do. That’s why she doesn’t show her sorrow. She only wants the best for you, believe me.”

“You sound like Isaac,” grumbled William. He was disappointed that his stepfather had not done more to change his mother’s mind.

“Well, you see, then you know I’m right.” Rose winked at him encouragingly and stroked his hair. “Take good care of yourself.” Hastily, she wiped away the tiny tears that were running down her cheek. “Now I must get back to my work,” she said briskly, then rushed into the house.

This leave-taking only made William’s heart heavier. He said good-bye to Agnes and Marie, and to Raymond and Alan, Rose and Jean’s two sons. Then he shook hands with Peter, the two hired hands, the new apprentices, and Brad and Luke. He even shook hands with Adam, though he was probably the only one William would not miss.

Isaac took his arm and privately slipped him a figurine he had carved for him. “It’s a falcon, cut from a nice smooth piece of ash wood, so you’ll never lose sight of your dream,” he uttered. “It will protect you on your journey and comfort you when you’re alone among strangers.” Then, louder, he said, “You will be successful, William. One day your mother will be very proud of you, as will I.”

A short-lived smile flitted across William’s face at those words as he gripped the little wooden bird in his fist. Isaac was on his side, after all.

“When the king’s messenger comes, tell him where I am,” he asked his stepfather in a whisper, and Isaac nodded confidently. William was not ready to give up hope.

He went over to Graybeard and embraced him one last time. The dog was already old, older than William. Would he still be alive when next William came home?

“Let’s be on our way, son,” Ellenweore suggested with surprising gentleness.

William let go of the dog with a heavy heart, stood up without looking at her, and took the reins from Jean. He mounted his horse in silence, trying to remain dignified and not weep. His mother must not think she could break his will.

A
rthur, the tenant of the smithy that Ellenweore had inherited from her father, and his wife, Elfreda, welcomed William with open arms. Ellenweore had reached an agreement with Arthur without difficulty and was on her way back to Saint Edmundsbury the following day. Despite his anger, her departure had been hard on William.

More than a month had gone by since then, and William had realized that it was possible to be very happy in Orford, even if he missed Rose’s gentle ways and even occasionally longed for his mother’s dry directness. For Elfreda was a cheerful, warmhearted woman who could cook almost as well as Rose, and Arthur, the blacksmith, was patient and friendly.

Nevertheless, it seemed to William that every day he spent here took him further away from his dream. One night, he decided it was time to take control of his own happiness. All he had to do was wait for a suitable moment to turn his back on Orford, provided the endless rain stopped one of these days.

At last, the May sun slowly dried out the marshy land. Impatience bubbled in William’s stomach, like cider on the palate. To be sure, it took a hefty dose of courage to go off alone into the unknown, but the thought of one day being a falconer helped him put all his fears aside. He had not let the previous weeks go to waste: he had kept his ears open wherever he went, but still he knew far too little about his surroundings. William had also resisted asking too many questions, so as not to arouse Arthur’s suspicions. Soon he would simply run away and go from one
falconer’s establishment to the next, looking for work. Although he did not know where he might find falconers or what he would live on during his wanderings, he refused to believe that his enterprise might be doomed to failure. Every night, he prayed ardently to the Lord for his help.

One day, he decided to set out on Whitsunday, immediately after mass. He had two days to get ready for his clandestine departure. He collected provisions by secretly pilfering them from the table and laid out some tinder and a flint so that he could light a fire, in case he had to spend the hours of darkness alone. He wrapped his few belongings in a bundle and hid it in a hollow tree on the edge of the forest, along with his wool cloak and the knife that his mother had given him.